Page 42 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

At that, he finally turns. His eyes are tired. Old. Not ancient like Faelan’s, not the stillness of centuries—but weathered by a different kind of burden. The slow erosion of hope over time.

“Because the Dream whispered your name before I ever met you. ”

I breathe in, startled. Not just by the words, but by how quietly he says them—like a truth he’s carried too long.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” he continues, his voice breaking more profoundly this time, a raw edge of shame and regret.

He avoids my gaze, staring instead at the glowing grass beneath our feet.

“I thought…maybe I could shape you. Shield you. Use you, if I had to. But then I saw you.” His voice catches, a genuine tremor.

“And I remembered what it felt like to believe in something.”

I want to cry, but I don’t. There’s been too much of that already. Instead, I offer him my hand, and he takes it. The silence between us is vast. Full of unspoken things.

“So what happens now?” I ask.

He studies our joined hands, then lets go.

“Now you lead,” he says, his voice firm, no longer a suggestion but a declaration of allegiance. The shift in power dynamics is palpable, a silent acknowledgment that he now follows my truth. “And I follow. Or fight. Or bleed. Whatever you need.”

The wind carries his words like a vow. Not a promise of love—or even loyalty—but something deeper. Older.

He leans in, leaving just enough space for the air between us to thrum with possibility, with the complex, non-romantic bond that has forged between us.

His lips hover near mine, a breath away, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss me—a final, silent acknowledgment of the impossible connection, the shared burdens, the profound understanding.

But it doesn’t happen. It’s a moment suspended, charged, then gone.

“I’ll see you again,” I say softly.

He smiles, but it’s bittersweet .

“You always do.”

I turn and walk away. He doesn’t follow. But I know he’s watching. Like he always has.

The climb is harder than it should be. My legs ache, and the wind bites higher up, but I keep going—hand over hand, step by step—until I reach the stone outcropping at the edge of the Freehold.

From here, I can see everything.

Below, the Freehold breathes—its living walls pulsing softly with Dream light. The broken Hollowland is healing, the edges stitched with green. Flowers bloom in cracks that used to reek of rot. In the distance, the city is stirring. A child’s laughter floats upward, sharp and real.

Color is returning—not all at once, but enough to paint brushstrokes of vibrant life across the grey.

I see the flash of a bright yellow scarf on a woman walking down a street, the sudden, brilliant blue of a mural appearing on a derelict wall, the soft, hopeful pink of new blossoms clinging to a fire escape.

I sit on the edge of the outcrop and dangle my legs over the side, watching the sun push up over the horizon. The light is soft and gold and kind. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m running from anything.

I’m simply here. Alive. And for once, that feels like enough .

I hum before I sing—just a single note, then another, testing my voice. There’s no magic in it. No power pushing through my skin, no surge of Dream rushing to answer. Just me.

Just music.

So I sing.

It’s not a song for the Queen, or the Dream, or even the Veil that still hums in my blood. It’s a song for myself. A lullaby my mother used to hum, forgotten and half-remembered. I don’t know all the words. I don’t need them.

I let the melody carry everything I can’t say.

Below, the city shifts, responding to the subtle hum of the Dream. People stir—not just in their beds, but in their souls.

A woman steps out onto her crumbling balcony—not just tilting her face toward the rising sun, but reaching for it, a faint, hopeful smile gracing her lips.

A man, sitting on a park bench, slowly lays down a gun, his hands trembling as he looks at the sky.

A street musician, who had long since given up, tunes a cracked guitar, the first tentative notes echoing down an alleyway.

Somewhere, someone cries—not out of grief, but out of overwhelming joy, relief, a sudden, profound recognition of something long lost and now found.

The Dream has touched them. Some remember. Some don’t.

But something is different now. Awake.

The Veil flickers faintly at the edge of the sky—a shimmer like heat above distant asphalt. The Queen waits in the shadows, and the world is far from healed .

But I am not afraid anymore. I breathe in.

A soft rustle of fabric. The scent of storm and iron. I glance back and see Faelan climbing the last stretch of the stone outcropping, smiling.

“I should’ve known you’d find the highest place to sing,” he murmurs.

I laugh, the sound light. “Had to make sure you could hear me.”

He sits beside me, his arm curling around my shoulders. We sit in silence as the city wakes, the world slowly turning toward color again.

“You did it,” he says quietly. “You are doing it.”

The wind carries my song out across the waking city like a prayer. Like a promise.

“The world is waking up.” I close my eyes, lean into him, and breathe deep. I smile. “And I’m not done singing yet.”